


Beautiful Disaster

by Mellaithwen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-06
Updated: 2006-07-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellaithwen/pseuds/Mellaithwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Dean sees everything from another point of view.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Disaster

_You should be glad you’re home, but there’s that little part of you that wanted to stay on the road, for just a little while longer. Comfort in his being there beside you once again. Comfort in driving that car..._

 _Drip on your forehead, drip above your eyebrow, you toss to the side. Jess had always complained about upstairs insistence to run too much water. Maybe there’s leak. There’s a leak. There’s a drip, it must be a leak._

 _You open your eyes; shout to the heavens, “No!”_

 _It’s not a leak._

 _But you’ll wish there was water when the fire starts. You’ll wish for a lot for things when the fire starts._

*-*-*

When clouds thunder outside of the window, after yesterday’s declaration of a heat wave, and the scratchy sheets from last night’s motel room feel soft beneath your back, you wonder. You have an inkling, but nothing more, and with your eyes closed, breathing in a scent that certainly shouldn’t be there, you assume it’s nothing more than a dream.

But then you can’t take it anymore. You open your eyes, and there’s no damp stain on the ceiling (no fire either, you think, thank god.) You look to the side, you see her, lying so peaceful, chest falling as she breathes and occasionally snores. Her blonde curls are tussled around her porcelain skin and now you’re sure.

Now you _know_ something’s wrong, because she isn’t dead, and certainly shouldn’t be in your bed. She wakes up slowly, her eyes find yours -- staring, and she questions with worry;

“Did you have another nightmare?”

Her voice is so painfully familiar, and it’s in that moment when you finally let the air flow back through your lungs that you truly begin to understand how deep the guilt went from that night. How much you blamed her death on your scattered timing; that if you’d been a little earlier, you might have saved them both.

You don’t reply, you can’t, because if you’re really honest; you’re pretty sure _this_ is some twisted nightmare and any minute she’ll be on the ceiling and Sam will be screaming for his lost love. Her frown deepens, clearly concerned.

“Dean?”

Is that you? You’re not too sure any more.

*-*-*

You’ve tried hitting your head, banging your fist against the wall, pulling at your hair, kicking things, and blaring music inside of your eardrums.

You can’t find your cell phone, and when you look out of the window, the Impala isn’t there.

No car, no phone, and clearly going insane.

But you have her. Even though it’s not you she belongs to.

But you’re still there, and you can still hear her milling around in the morning. You can hear the fridge creek open, footsteps on wooden floors, the ping of the coffee machine that shouldn’t be trusted because the last time you used it, it nearly exploded and—

No, that wasn’t...it couldn’t have been you.

Could it?

*-*-*

 _Berate yourself for leaving, that’ll make the clocks turn back. That’ll put her in your arms again, and you can see her smile, you can feel her breath on the crook of her neck because she’s always shorter when you’re hugging her close._

 _But she’s inside them, the flames engulfing, you can’t breathe, and neither can she._

 _The phantom dripping continues all night._

 _So do the nightmares._

 _You shoot awake, run to the bathroom, and stay there. The cold tile cools your sweaty skin, as you try to remember how it is you learnt to breathe._

 _Every night, every god damn night, and every day passes with nothing. No fire, no flames, no fear, no pain, but always the waiting. Until you forget why. It takes you longer every time you see that little bit more of an agonizing future. Alone._

*-*-*

You follow her, because there’s nothing else to do. When you try and convince her you’d rather stay indoors, she gives you a single look—one that if left to bloom could seriously cause problems. Fights, questions...

So you go.

The sun is shining, annoyingly enough, and the ground is hot, so much so that you can feel in through the base of your sneakers. Your hands are in your pockets, your shoulders hunched like a petulant child.

  
_“Stand up straight,”_ your father would say, but when was the last time you spoke to him?

You’ve stopped without realising, and when you feel her hand tugging on your arm, you look up to see another in your group. From two to three. You feel close to him, a name on the tip of your tongue, and the more you talk, the more you know. You just _know_.

Your best friend Eddie. A little eccentric considering he’s a student at Stanford. He’s quite the party goer.

Are you? Of course not. You study, you read, you write notes, and prepare.

That’s what Sam did, and you’ve deduced that this must be his life. It’s Stanford for god sakes.

But your hair’s the same, you’re not any taller, and you don’t feel that different. You’re still on edge, waiting for an attack

Jessica pulls away, and Eddie’s making jokes in the background. You still haven’t spoke to her, and you can see she’s still worried. But what can you say? That every second that goes by you’re waiting for Sam to run in and accuse you of stealing away his Jessica?

That with each moment you see her dare reach for your hand, you long to hold it in your own?

And every time you dare wonder, you say _no_. You think of _Sam_ , and the thoughts go away.

For a little while.

*-*-*

She tries to talk to you, and you try to change the subject onto something general. Somewhere you can’t go wrong. But what? Did Sam play sports? Do you?

No. You don’t follow anything local, and Jess has always preferred curling up next to you on the couch, safe inside rather than making your way to the stadium through the rowdy crowds...

You blink, and wonder if this is how life is going to be. Random messages, letting you know just enough to keep the façade going until you can sort this out. Leaving you to wonder just how long you want it to go on.

You’re worried when it gets harder and harder to remember a different life, but then you remember the three essay papers in at the end of the week, and find yourself far more pre-occupied with downing enough coffee to keep you awake for a month than mulling over the smell of copper in the air.

*-*-*

 _Life’s not fair, but this is ridiculous, this breaks your heart, this destroys you, and stamps on your remains, and your hearts bleeding but it’s her blood on your forehead. Actions have consequences, bullets leave holes, and flames burn her body from the inside out._

 _If you scream loud enough, she’ll hear you, and come back. If you stop talking you’ll hear her whispers on the breeze. If you stay awake every night, you won’t miss her if she’s standing at the foot of the bed. And she won’t ask you, when you should be asleep, “Why, Dean, why?”_

*-*-*

Your brother is younger than you by four years. Your mother is dead. Murdered. Your father hunts demons and ghosts and the things that hide beneath your bed or inside of your closet in a small attempt to seek vengeance, justice, revenge.

You used to be there right with him, before the school advisor told you all about college, and made it sound so appealing. Before you stood in front of him, swallowing time and time again, running words through your head that might quell the anger you know will be there.

He’s disappointed, pissed. But this is your life not his.

You nod in Sam’s direction, your way of saying sorry; your way of passing the torch. It’s his turn to be the good son now, because Dad’s walked out, and told you to do the same with more finality, because you’re the one who doesn’t listen now, and it’s your turn to see normalcy.

You don’t like lying to your close friends, and you try to be as vague as possible. Your mother’s dead, that much is true, the fire, the flames, your father and you not on the best of terms, and a kid brother who adores you but is very busy making sure your investigator of a father doesn’t get himself killed.

“Killed? How dangerous is it?” She asks one night, hot chocolate in her palms.

“All depends on the case.”

*-*-*

You’ve fought with her twice, the first was in regards to your cagey nature, and almost refusal to really open up.

 _“I just want to know, Dean.”_

 _“Yeah, well you can’t always have what you want!”_

Apparently had not been the right thing to say to a woman losing patience. You’d think you would have learnt that much from Cassie. Then you frown, and wonder, who’s that?

The second fight was a mistake, more so that the other fights. A reckless comment on your first impression that Jessica hadn’t taken to that well, which then referred back to the first fight, and indeed finished in the same way, with the both of you storming off. Her to the bathroom, bedroom, or living room, and you outside, to the car, to the bar, or to the abandoned park down the road; with it’s eerie silences and occasional squeak of the swings comforting you.

So far it’s only taken a week of the cold shoulder before you both cave, ever wary of a repeat performance by the other party.

When she laughs, and makes you laugh with her. Yours is more of a guffaw, deep and rumbling, while hers reminds you of children’s giggling, and you mock her endlessly for that fact.

You hold her hand, and her fingers curl in, you hear something akin to a sigh, and she looks relieved when you don’t pull away anymore.

There’s a picture of the both of you inside of your wallet. You weren’t there, not really, but you know Eddie was the one who took it, you know how long it took him to press the right button, and you know the picture was intended to have the three of you, and he’s just to the right, unable to get there in time.

That’s why the both of you are laughing so much whenever you reach for your ID.

And it isn’t fake.

*-*-*

 _Ash tastes like sand in your mouth. Sawdust crushed into tiny crystals across your tongue. Running down your throat like sulphuric flames and there’s fiery smog filling the house, and you fight the hands that hold you, you fight them all the way._

 _How can you save her, when you’re too busy being saved yourself?_

*-*-*

Mrs Moore is the complete opposite of her daughter, and they lack the close comfort Mr Moore and she have. She’s not as kind, and though polite, you’re sure she hates you despite the fact that you’ve truly made an effort and acted up to being the perfect boyfriend, laughing at their jokes, smiling all the while, and giving enough information to answer their questions. If not a little more.

No, Jess takes after her father. They laugh differently, they look different, with him and his dark short locks, and her with her long blonde curls, but their eyes gleam when they’re happy, and you see her dimples in his face. Old age has given him the beginnings of a large stomach, and he looks uncomfortable in his suit but he likes you.

When you hold out your hand at the end of the night, bidding them farewell and praising them for such an evening, he takes it and pulls you into a quick embrace, a pat on the back, and a whisper in your ear, “You did good,” which makes you think instantly of your own father, and how you’ll never hear those words again.

Not now that you’re in college, and Dad’s hunting in the deep dark, foreboding insert-town-name-here.

When the door closes, and Jess watches her parents leave through the front room window, your arm snakes around her waist, she leans in, but keeps her fingers out; holding the curtain back and waving when her father notices.

Her mother waves back, but her expression is somewhat shrewd when her eyes catch in the embrace Jess is currently locked into. You make a joke, because you feel you deserve to after her frosty reception. She laughs.

“Talk about burning bridges.”

You feel a shudder run down your spine, and hold on to her that little bit tighter.

*-*-*

You walked in on a whim. You have no purpose there, but it’s almost as though they’re calling to you from the window. Gleaming in the August sunlight, shining with intent. If you’re honest, the only reason you’re looking is because Mr Moore has long since bragged that you have their blessing, and that he knows you’ll make his daughter happy.

The door jangles when you open, the world called to attention at your entrance with the chiming from the bell above. There’s an older man in the corner, his keen eyes studying the jewellery beneath in the clear glass case, while the clerk is older still.

His hair is cropped, and white, beginning to bald on top and his pale skin has the occasional freckle spread across it. There are permanent creases and folds in his forehead, around his mouth and on the corner of his eyes; Laughter lines and wrinkles.

You admire each ring, and give it the time it deserves for you to stare. Too big, too small, too shiny, too dull.

It takes you over an hour and a half to even consider one. Another two to get up the courage to buy it.

“Thank you,” you say hastily, admiring the green velvet box in your palm, soft on your skin. He smiles at you, a grin that spans across his face, making him seem wise and jolly, though something tells you he’s anything but. His eyes glitter as he stares at you, and you feel his gaze boring into your back before you turn again and he speaks.

“I am the creator, there’s no need to thank me.” Quiet words, and you think, he must mean the rings. You’re unsure, uneasy, and his bright eyes follow you out of the door and down the street to your car.

You always envied your father’s Impala, and you’re well aware this ’65 Rambler of yours doesn’t come close, but you’re allowed to drive this car – your car, whereas you know you’ll never see your father’s keys.

*-*-*

 _“Dean!”_

 _“No! Jess! No!”_

 _Arms pull, grasping, falling, god no, Jessica._

 _“Let me go! Jess!”_

 _No answer._

*-*-*

A knock at the door, not the lamp falling over, is what wakes you up, and lets you know he’s there. It’s his face, worried, that stops you asking what he’s doing there,

You see him, and you’re afraid, because it’s been so long. You’ve adjusted, you’ve blended in with the crowd, you smile, and you laugh, and you feel like a weight has been lifted.

But then he’s there, in your living room, politely greeting your girlfriend, and asking so sincerely for help in finding Dad. You hear _hunting trip_ , and _hasn’t been home in a few days_ , and in your head you still remember Sam’s expression when you told him. The one that wasn’t quite worried enough to satisfy what you had wanted to see.

But now it’s him standing there. And you’re mirroring his every stance. You can’t even touch Jessica because now Sam’s there. Sam’s there to claim her, to kick your ass for keeping his seat warm.

No. To find dad.

He’s nearly begging, and he’s truly scared.

But his eyes stray back to Jessica, and he explains, so confused, about a recurring sense of déjà vu since he touched her hand, and shook it. As though, he’d seen her before.

“When?” You ask, a little too abrupt than you should have. “Were you awake? Or were you asleep?”

“What? Dean-”

“Sam, I need to know.”

“I-I don’t know. I guess-I don’t know, why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

Because you’ll change it. You can’t lose her. You don’t care if Sam pulls you out of that blazing inferno of a house, because there’s no way in hell you’ve spent two years of bliss to just have it ripped away in a second because time is desperate to repeat itself, even if the world is upside down, and nothing really makes sense.

*-*-*

Sam isn’t bitter, but you were. Sam’s made his decision, to stay because after you left, Dad became even more reckless than before. You remember that from your life too. And watching him bow his head at the memories; you want nothing more than to say you understand. Maybe even give some pointers, but you can’t, because despite everything this family has gone through; even this is a little far-fetched

And you don’t want to admit to the fact you’re beginning to forget.

“She seems nice.”

“Shut up, Sam.”

“I’m serious, Dean. I’m happy for you.”

You look at everything but him, and mutter, “shut up,” once more while Sam explains all about Jericho, California, a mysterious phone call, and life after you went away.

*-*-*

 _Her eyes are open, her stomach slashed, and her blood drip, drip, drips down._

 _You see her and scream; that’s all there is to do._

 _Because this isn’t a flickering fire on top of a candle at night, dancing on a table; romanticized for her. There’s no toast to be made for a two-year anniversary. No dinner to be had, because your appetite’s gone. Your thirst too. You’re frozen and numb. The more you think about it, the more you’re sure you saw her blink._

*-*-*

“I can’t believe you crashed Dad’s car, he’s gonna kill you.” You say simply, hiding your own surprise at seeing both your brother making out with a ghost and then driving straight into a rickety old house.

“It’s my car, now.” He tells you, and it hurts more than it should. “Co-ordinates point to a place called Black water Ridge.” He tells you, and your eyes are fastened ahead. You’re tempted to offer help, but a part of you thinks it won’t be welcome, and Sam will never ask, not when he’s seen the life you’re living.

“You think I can make it by morning?” He asks, and you smile.

“Miracles can happen.”

“I’m not that slow.”

“You make Church Go-ers look like formula one drivers.”

“You’re a cruel person.”

“Just telling it like it is little brother.”

*-*-*

Fire, flames, and you’re on the other side of the wall. The bed. You’re no bystander, but you don’t fit, you don’t belong, and her face is forever etched into your memory, mouth open agape in a silent scream, because you’re the only one shouting, it’s your voice you can hear above the crackling fire, scratchy from the fumes as you call out her name.

Hands grab you, fists in your shirt and you’re desperate to see her smile, and you’re waiting for it to be over. Waiting to wake up, waiting for her laugh, her voice asking if you’re okay. Waiting for concern that doesn’t come from your brother after he manhandles you away and you end up falling to the grass, watching the place burn.

Sirens wail, the call’s already been made, and neighbours come rushing. People you don’t really know, but are concerned all the same. You’re numb, you’re sick. You think you’re dead, and surely this is hell. Penance for killing creatures and shouting _“Take that, mother fucker,”_ wincing at your fist in the air, because the bastard threw you into a god-damned tree. Oh, and definitely blasphemy. And then there’s the whole not-waiting-until-you’re-married thing.

You think it’s a little late for confession, and you ignore Sam when he calls your name. You’re fine, you’re perfectly fine, because you’ll wake up soon, and she’ll have juice and a note left on the counter, saying that she’s gone to her morning classes.

You’re okay, because deep-down, you’re still waiting.

Sirens wail. Siren’s wail. Siren’s wail. _Nee-naw, nee-naw, nee-naw_. Fire crackles and licks at the building. Takes everything in its path, eats away at flesh and bone and there you sit, on a darkened lawn.

You know this, twenty two years ago. But your dreams never showed you this. They never told you about an aftermath, life may have, but life got away from you every day you had her to lean into at night. Life and hurt fled when the both of you burnt your toast, in the morning rush. Life didn’t matter, as long as you were living it.

You open your mouth, you’re about to say it, you suddenly feel you should, though you’re not entirely sure why, like déjà vu. Like the answer on the tip of your tongue, but it doesn’t feel right and you’ve had enough of ignoring your instincts, your feelings. You change tactics.

You hand Sam the gun to finish loading it, you let him reach for the trunk’s top, and you watch the gun fall back into the car as he says, “We’ve got work to do.”

You feel a cold patch of air on the back of your neck, and when you turn to your brother, you could have sworn you’d seen a wise grin and glittering eyes, and words surrounding your head that he is the creator, there is no need to thank...

Sam’s in your place, back in _his_ place. You’re at the wheel. He’s riding shotgun. Life’s as it should be. _Firekillpaindrive_. Keys in the ignition, foot on the pedal, arsenal in the trunk, handgun in your waistband, and your brother beside you. No rings in your pocket, no wholesome feelings filling your heart.

You cast a fleeting glance at the place you called home for two years, pretend you can’t see the clerk from the jewellery store with his wise grin saddened. In time, when Sam fires at you, _Jess died six months ago, how the hell would you know how I feel?_ You’ll keep quiet, because you know exactly how he feels, because you loved her too.

  
-Fin

 


End file.
